


A Still More Glorious Dawn Awaits

by canistakahari



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drunk Sex, Fluff, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-15 14:50:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing about McCoy that Jim is pretty sure very few people actually know is that he is a clingy fucking bastard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Still More Glorious Dawn Awaits

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Рассвет прекраснее нас ждет](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2353466) by [kaiSSa666](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaiSSa666/pseuds/kaiSSa666)



The thing about McCoy that Jim is pretty sure very few people actually know is that he is a  _clingy fucking bastard_.   
  
It’s a discovery he makes in the muddy, pre-dawn stickiness of the drunken morning after, in the scant five seconds of content stillness between the sudden divergent thoughts of  _oh god my fucking head what the fucking fuck shit ow_ and  _those are arms, there’s someone in bed with me_. Jim has a grandiose tendency to sprawl, which means the regulation Academy beds are, on a good day, too small, and he often wakes up half laid out on the floor, arms and legs akimbo; he instead wakes up crowded and compressed against the wall with his face mashed into his pillow and a heavy set of shoulders and arms pinning him around the waist.   
  
He waits patiently for the eventual mental starburst of epiphany, and, ten breaths later, he’s hit with an image of what McCoy looks like from an angle that would place Jim on his knees between McCoy’s long, lean legs.   
  
That filthy snapshot is evidently all that’s required to release the floodgates of what amounts to Jim’s own private super-awesome porno, and he’s assaulted by a flurry of sense memories; the taste of McCoy on his tongue, heavy and soap-clean, the warmth of his skin and the salty tang of his come, the grasping hot clench of McCoy’s body around Jim’s cock as Jim rocked slow into him, the echoing writhe of McCoy’s hips in time with Jim’s and the rough slide of his clutching fingers.   
  
“Bones,” mutters Jim, squirming awkwardly.   
  
McCoy’s arms tighten and he mumbles unintelligibly. His head is resting on the small of Jim’s back, his body folded up somewhere at the end of the mattress. “ _Bones_.” He kicks out with one foot and hits something soft and fleshy. McCoy grunts, shifting, and the mattress vibrates as he fully detaches himself to blindly crawl up along Jim’s body, nosing towards him like a heat-seeking missile before flopping down half atop Jim.   
  
“I am still drunk,” Jim announces, wrapping an arm around McCoy and pulling him bodily into the curve of his chest. “I am absolutely drunk and hallucinating a universe in which Leonard McCoy loves to _cuddle_.”  
  
McCoy snuffles, his expression slack and unworried like it never is in wakefulness, dark hair falling over his forehead and into his eyes. Jim softens, brushing his thumb over the plush swell of McCoy’s lower lip.   
  
This just makes McCoy shove closer, hitching one leg over Jim’s hip and burrowing into his chest. McCoy head disappears from view to tuck comfortably under Jim’s chin.   
  
“Holy shit,” mutters Jim, threading his fingers through McCoy’s bird’s nest of bedhead and tilting his face down to nose at the soft strands. “You’re  _adorable_.”  
  
“Keep talkin’ like that,” slurs McCoy, sounding even more drunk than Jim still feels, “and I will punch you in the goddamn mouth.”  
  
“And ruin the afterglow?”  
  
McCoy growls and worms his hand down between Jim’s legs to squeeze his cock warningly. Jim totally  _does not squeak_. “Right now, all you’ve got going for you is that you’re a warm body, Jim.”  
  
“I’m shocked and appalled and hurt and  _shocked_. You don’t mean that.”  
  
“Where’s your off button?”  
  
“Right under my nose and above my chin.”  
  
To his surprise, a fraction of a section later, McCoy is kissing him, large hands cupping Jim’s face as he presses their mouths together, firm and sweet. Jim is so struck dumb—they didn’t kiss last night, Jim would  _remember_ —that he’s silent for a good two minutes, time enough for McCoy to turn his face back into Jim’s chest and burrow in, arms wrapped snug around his waist.  
  
Jim’s readying something smart and obnoxious to say, but then McCoy’s lips sweep his collarbone in a soft kiss and it’s like he’s ten years old again and Sam pushed him out of the treehouse and his breath got kicked right out of him. His heart does a funny little arrhythmic thump against his sternum and he melts like a popsicle on a sunny day.   
  
With as much dignity as he can muster, Jim kisses the top of McCoy’s head, squeezes him tight, and closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.


End file.
